


small things called love

by wordstruck



Series: i and yours and ours (iwaoi one-shots) [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (Doesn't Give Away Any Manga Plot DW), Childhood Friends, Crybaby Oikawa, Extremely Mild Character Injury, Falling In Love, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Spoilers for Timeskip Sorta, Pre-Canon, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26105938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/wordstruck
Summary: In his haste to return to the ground, Hajime almost slips twice, and he definitely scrapes his shins against rough bark. But he stumbles to the ground and over to Tooru, tugging his friend around by the hand and reaching out chubby hands to chubby cheeks.“I’m here,” he tells his friend, expression scrunched up.(Oikawa Tooru is a little bit of a crybaby growing up.)
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Series: i and yours and ours (iwaoi one-shots) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875211
Comments: 6
Kudos: 208





	small things called love

**Author's Note:**

> commissioned by [hann](https://twitter.com/hqchibis)!! she asked for crybaby oikawa + childhood friends iwaoi, so i made three scenes in which oikawa's cries and iwa's there for him XD i don't think this really qualifies as a manga spoiler given that the incident happened in oikawa's _past_ , but it does get revealed in one of the timeskip chapters so... read at your discretion??
> 
> anyway this is honestly just fluffy iwaoi with crybaby oikawa. that's it, just take it.
> 
> mostly edited, but will fix anything if i find it! i hope you like the fic ^__^

* * *

**i.**

Oikawa Tooru is an emotional child.

 _Crybaby_ is what Hajime actually thinks, although he’s not allowed to call Tooru that anymore after he’d said it _once_ and Tooru had screamed _I am not a crybaby!_ at the top of his lungs, while crying. But Tooru _is_ a little emotionally precarious — prone to tantrums at the littlest things, sulking before he’s appeased; crying even in small moments of distress.

Hajime learns this all too well at six years old, when some relatives come to visit for his birthday. His older cousins bring them to the nearby park. Given that Tooru is still five-turning-six, it’s reasonable that he doesn’t do well in most of the games they play. That doesn’t stop him from being a sore loser, all puffed-out cheeks and indignation. 

In the end, Hajime intervenes, taking Tooru by the hand and leading him off. It’s the start of cicada season, so Hajime’s determined to catch at least one as a present for himself. Tooru is far less inclined, but he finds a patch of flowers to pick and try to tie together. They stay like that for a while, Hajime crouched down and inspecting the surrounding plants, while Tooru rips up flowers and hums to himself.

And then Hajime spots the most perfect cicada in his life. It’s big and brown, perched on the low wall bordering the park. He shuffles towards it on hands and knees, trying to be as quiet as possible. But he’s no subtle hunter, and the cicada flies off. Undeterred, Hajime follows.

The cicada lands on a nearby tree. Hajime creeps closer. The cicada shifts. Hajime approaches. He hefts himself up onto the wall, then into the fork of the tree trunk. As the cicada climbs, so does Hajime, entirely fixated on the crawling insect that he doesn’t realize how high up he’s gone until a loud cry breaks his concentration.

Hajime immediately looks down, attention torn from the cicada in front of him. Tooru’s standing in his little patch of flowers and wailing. A moment later and Hajime realizes Tooru’s crying _his_ name, the _Iwa-chan_ coming out increasingly garbled as he becomes more and more upset.

In his haste to return to the ground, Hajime almost slips twice, and he definitely scrapes his shins against rough bark. But he stumbles to the ground and over to Tooru, tugging his friend around by the hand and reaching out chubby hands to chubby cheeks.

“I’m here,” he tells his friend, expression scrunched up. Tooru’s an ugly crier, all snot and sniffles, eyes glassed over. When his friend realizes he hasn’t disappeared, he stops.

“You were—” he hiccups, “you were — you—”

“I’m here,” Hajime repeats, dropping a hand to grab Tooru’s. He squeezes reassuringly, while the other hand smudges the tears on Tooru’s cheeks. Eventually his friend goes quiet, frowning at Hajime, splotchy face and all.

“You _left_ ,” he accuses, and he looks so ridiculously put out that Hajime almost laughs.

“I was gonna come back,” he points out. Tooru sniffs haughtily.

“Iwa-chan shouldn’t leave,” he insists, then yelps when Hajime pokes him on the cheek.

“Yes I can,” he says, then huffs in fond exasperation. “But I’ll come back, okay?”

Tooru squints at him a few moments before nodding.

“Okay.”

**ii.**

When they’re eight years old, Tooru drags Hajime to a summer volleyball training camp for kids. Hajime’s a little reluctant at first — he’s already starting to learn football, and he loves running across the grass and sliding around in the dirt. But one pout from Tooru and he relents, trotting beside his friend as they walk to the neighborhood multi-purpose center three days a week.

(In the end, it’s worth it, because Hajime falls in love with volleyball.)

It’s Friday afternoon and Tooru is wailing at the top of his lungs. He wants to play setter in their practice game, but the facilitators are making them take turns. On the court, Tooru clutches the ball so hard it might pop, and his face is a blotchy mess. A facilitator tries to calm him down, but Tooru’s having none of it; he yanks away and flings the volleyball away, _hard._

It smacks the floor and rebounds right into Hajime’s face.

There’s a still-beat moment while everyone stares in horror as Hajime lands on his butt, blood starting to trickle from his nose. Then there’s a flurry of noise and motion, but all Hajime can see is Tooru’s face. His friend is staring at him in horror, but before Hajime can call out, Tooru runs off. That causes even _more_ chaos, and practice is cut short so the facilitators can take Hajime to the clinic and look for Tooru.

Hajime goes home with a huge bruise on his face and blood-crusted nostrils, which do not rank very high on his list of injuries to date. He still has to stay in bed with an ice pack pressed to his nose, placated with cartoons and pudding. But Hajime cares more about the expression on his friend’s face before he’d let; he’s never seen Tooru look like that before.

A knock on his door breaks his thoughts. His mother comes in, smiling, and tells him there’s someone here to see him.

When she steps aside, Tooru’s standing there, clutching the hem of his shirt and staring at the floor. After Hajime’s mother leaves the room, neither of them move. Then Tooru starts sniffling. Hajime moves on instinct, but before he can get his legs off the bed, Tooru has launched himself across the room. The blankets _whoof_ around them as Tooru tackles Hajime to the mattress, knocking the wind clear out of him.

“Iwa — _Iwa_ —” Tooru can’t get a full word out through his hiccups and sobs. Hajime looks at the trembling puff of hair under his nose, feels his shirt grow damp. After a moment, he hugs his friend closer.

This just makes Tooru cry harder. They end up lying there for a bit until Tooru calms down, with Hajime awkwardly petting his head. But his friend’s face stays smushed into his shirt, so Hajime doesn’t let go.

“Okay?” Hajime asks, uncertain.

Tooru nods and squeezes him harder.

“I’m sorry,” is the muffled reply. And Hajime probably has tears and snot all down his front, but he still smiles.

**iii.**

At eleven years old, Tooru is firmly settled in volleyball.

He has _plans_ — to play in the local kids’ league, to get onto a powerhouse team in junior high, to eventually be Japan’s number one setter. He even wrangles his parents into getting tickets to an exhibition match between Japan and Argentina at the Sendai Arena. Neither Hajime nor Tooru have ever watched a live game before; both of them are terrible at hiding their excitement.

Argentina ends up winning the match, despite dropping the second and third sets. Hajime is predictably enamored with the powerful spikers on both teams, especially Handa Koji. But both surprisingly and not, Tooru fixates on the veteran Argentinian setter — Jose Blanco, who’d subbed into the middle of the match and quietly, meticulously turned things around for the visiting team. He wriggles his way to the barrier, almost tipping over onto the court as he yells, in mangled English, “Mr. Blanco, can I have your autograph?”

He ends up getting his jock strap signed, because he’s determined and has no shame. Hajime watches as Tooru smiles, starry-eyed, and declares to Blanco that he’s going to be a setter when he grows up. The man looks down at them for a moment, fumbling over some words, before he gives Tooru a thumbs up and says, in clumsy Japanese, _good luck._

They stand there after Blanco leaves, staring after him. Hajime quips that Tooru will _definitely_ accidentally wash the jock strap. Tooru demands his fifty yen back. They jostle each other as they leave the court, Tooru clutching the autograph tightly.

Halfway to the train station, Tooru stops walking. When Hajime turns to him with a frown, he finds his friend looking straight ahead. There’s pink splotched on his cheeks and his expression is all screwed up, like he’s trying not to cry. He’s still sniffling anyway, eyes turning watery.

“Iwa-chan,” he says, voice wobbly, “I’m gonna be the number one setter one day.”

Hajime blinks at him, then exhales a smile. “Yeah?”

Tooru nods. “I _will,_ ” he insists. “And you’re going to be my best spiker.”

That catches Hajime off-guard, but his chest swells with pride. “Yeah.”

Tooru swipes at his face, then looks Hajime right in the eyes. “We’re gonna win everything and become the best in Japan.”

In response, Hajime spits on his palm and sticks it out. Tooru licks his own palm and takes Hajime’s hand. They shake once, firmly, like they’ve seen in old movies. They’re both grinning so hard it hurts.

It’s a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! come say hi on twitter — i'm [@redluxite](https://twitter.com/redluxite) ^__^ i yell a lot about haikyuu and bnha. you can check there for ways to support my writing!


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